


flashlights, spotlights, strobe lights

by agent_orange



Category: Bandom, Fall Out Boy
Genre: Alternate Universe - Gender Changes, Brotp, Community: kink_bingo, Gen, Heterosexual Life Partners, Male-Female Friendship
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-07-20
Updated: 2013-07-20
Packaged: 2017-12-20 18:30:00
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,315
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/890460
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/agent_orange/pseuds/agent_orange
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>There are a few photographers up in front, the cameras flashing and lighting up Trish's face. She looks flustered occasionally, if a flash catches her in the eye, but doesn't let it stop her.</p>
            </blockquote>





	flashlights, spotlights, strobe lights

**Author's Note:**

> This is for andrewhurleys, and for kink_bingo. It's pre-slash if you squint, kind of, but can absolutely be read as gen.
> 
> Disclaimer: These are real people, not my characters, and they belong to no one besides themselves. This did not happen. If you got here by Googling yourself, please hit the back button.

Pete goes to Trish's Hermosa Beach show after waffling about it for a good week and annoying the fuck out of Gabe and Travis in the process. It's the last one, and he knows Trish is staying in L.A. for a couple weeks after for a bunch of meetings and sessions before she heads back to Chicago. There'll be more than enough time before he and Bebe and Spence go on tour. He's messed up too many times in the past to not meticulously plan this out.

He doesn't tell her he'll be there because he's not quite sure where he stands, but he has his manager get a ticket—the show's sold out. Before he leaves, Pete dry-swallows a Xanax and pockets another one, just to be safe. He's hoping his baseball cap pulled low over his eyes and Creed tshirt (which he bought specifically for this purpose; he's not a _heathen_ ) will keep him from being noticed.

Standing in the back of the venue is something Pete rarely does, and it feels uncomfortable to not be moshing in the front like when he was a kid, or sidestage or in the VIP section like he's used to now. He brought big sunglasses to cover his face, but it's just too dark to wear them and see well. That wasn't exactly part of the plan. He sighs and sticks them in his hoodie. Flexibility is something he's supposed to be working, his therapist says.

Trish comes onstage a few minutes after eight, smiling at her band and greeting the crowd. Pete almost always sees her in jeans and tshirts, hoodies and jackets and horrendous trucker caps, and maybe a dress every now and then for an event. Sure, he's spent more than a reasonable amount of time watching her solo performances on YouTube, but seeing it in person is a shock, kind of, and it's still different to see her so tiny, a little bit of baby fat still clinging to her cheeks.

She's wearing a white button-down and gray menswear trousers, an electric blue bow-tie and matching gloves, suspenders and these sick silver moon boots straight out of a Michael Jackson video. This tour is the first time in forever, probably, she's doing shows without a hat. And God, her face: dark, lined eyes and pale, dewy skin, her mouth a perfect peach shade. Pete can't help himself; he has to take a few surreptitious shots on his iPhone.

"So this is the last night of the tour," Trish says, almost drowned out by loud _boo_ s, "and I wanna thank my incredible band yet again before we get started. I'm, like, the least essential person on this stage." Someone _aww_ s. Pete makes a mental note to tell her how wrong she is later. "And thanks to all you guys who came out to support me. It means the world." Her face falls into the expression Pete knows means she's going to have to hold back tears in a minute, and she says, "Okay, let's do this!"

Matt's killing it on bass but Pete's tunnel vision has already kicked in. It's like no one else exists but Trish. "Porcelain" isn't exactly uplifting but she looks happier than she has in months, and Pete feels a pang of guilt because Trish'd been miserable for at least a year in FOB before they went on hiatus. There are a few photographers up in front, the cameras flashing and lighting up Trish's face. She looks flustered occasionally, if a flash catches her in the eye, but doesn't let it stop her.

During the break in "Allie," some girl yells, "I wanna have your babies!" and Trish's face colors but she doesn't react otherwise, coughing when it's time and jumping back into the song. Jealously pulses through Pete's body, because he's always been territorial. Even though he knows a random fan isn't a threat, Trish is his, and he doesn't like when that feels shaky.

She starts dancing again, throwing her whole body into it, and Pete takes another quick photo of her, eyes closed, chin up, and sweaty hair mid-whip. He's definitely framing it, he decides, and putting it in his living room.

His jeans get tight when Trish sits down on the drum throne and undoes her tie. He'd say it's Freudian but he's not sure how; in any case, he loves when she drums, and the ridiculous faces she makes, like she's afraid something's going to pop up and hit her. Trish's voice is smooth and soulful and a little tour-raspy. She's giving it her all and it's amazing.

Trish closes with "This City," which is electric, even with her voice breaking on one of the high notes, and the applause seems to go on forever. Finally it dies down, and she thanks everyone again and walks backstage.

Pete knows his chance is now, so as people bottleneck in the doorway, trying to rush out for the first spot in the autograph line, he pushes his way to the front, keeping his head down. The lone security guard backstage looks at him funny, probably because of his God-awful Creed shirt, so Pete lifts his hat and gets waved through. Trish's door is ajar, and Pete makes himself knock before entering, though he can't wait for a response. He's changed, but not that much.

"Hey," Trish says, her voice sounding more tired than it did a few minutes ago, like she put up a front for the show to hide the strain of touring and then had to let it down. She doesn't look particularly surprised to see him, but she cracks up when she sees his shirt. "My manager told me you were coming," she gasps, trying to catch her breath, "but she didn't tell me you'd accepted Jesus as your Lord and Savior."

"Shut it," Pete replies, barely pretending to be affronted. "The things I do for you. It wouldn't do to be upstaged by one of your former bandmates at your own show, now, would it?"

Trish stops dabbing at her face with a baby wipe and crosses the room to hug him. He rests his chin on her head, which bobs as she says, "Current bandmate, no matter what, end of story." She lets him breathe in her hair for a minute, then pulls back and asks, "So, what'd you think?"

It breaks his heart a little that she sounds like she still wants (needscravesdesires) his approval, especially after ten years of him telling her how beautiful and talented and perfect she is. But he says, "Seriously, we always said you're too good for FOB," which makes her laugh.

He's suddenly aware, though, that she probably needs to go out and sign and say goodbye to her band and all that stuff; he says so and Trish frowns thoughtfully.

"Kinda, yeah. Well, my band's probably sick of me and my impressions by now, but I'd feel bad if I didn't go out and sign for at least a few kids," she says.

Pete knows when he's not wanted, and he's still wary of their fragile relationship, so he says, "I'll get out of your hair, then. Love the blonde, by the way."

She shakes her head, bangs falling in her eyes before she brushes them out of the way. "What? No. No way. We missed each other at Lolla and we'll both be on tour this fall; you're not getting away _that_ easy, Wentz. Come on. I'll sign for a few kids, tell them tour's really worn me out and I need to rest, and then we'll catch up. You can tell me all about your younger, hotter version of me."

Trish's voice is sarcastic and she's smirking, but it makes Pete hurt. He was specifically trying not to replace her, and he thinks he did a pretty good job. He pulls Trish to him and kisses her forehead before she leaves, Sharpie in hand and a genuine smile on her face.

Pete texts Diaz— _every tme a frnd succeeds i die a lttle_ , half-seriously—and types a lyric idea into his phone— _all im asking you to do is resist the apple. dont fall victim to the seprents cunning_ —before he gets bored enough to snap a few shots of Trish's dressing room, her little baby keyboard and setlist notes. What can he say? He's always been kind of a stalker.

It's another half hour, at least, before Trish comes back, apologizing but smiling. "I felt bad walking away from so many people," she says, and Pete's not even a little surprised. He turns his back while she strips out of her show clothes, sneaking a peek because he can't help it, and then she has on a denim shirt and a skirt that falls just above her knees, her sweaty hair shoved up into a beanie.

"You're such a hipster," Pete teases, and it doesn't help that they end up in one of L.A.'s many vegan restaurants, in deference to Trish. He gets a club sandwich and kale celery juice, while Trish orders a quinoa burger and tea. They talk about touring and Ashlee, Trish and Elisa's "break," music and movies and life. Trish's voice gets increasingly raspy as they talk, low and husky and incredibly hot. Pete knows he could put it on a record and have it go gold, but he just wants to bottle it up and keep it for himself, like Trish is singing him to sleep through the phone.

"So the show was good? Or were you just saying that?" Trish asks, and Pete makes a face, reaching across the table to grip her hand.

"You're never going to get it, are you, Trish?" He shakes his head so hard his brain makes noise. "They loved you out there. _I_ love you. It's hard to say which is better, how great you look or you sound." Pete wasn't planning to show her the pictures he took of her onstage, because she'd probably hit him upside the head and tell him to stop being a creeper, but he's trying to make a point, so he takes his phone out and scrolls past the photos of her dressing room. " _Look_ at you. You made a record all by yourself, and the only reason your band's there is because you can't play five instruments at once. You made it. If we never come back, you'll hack it on your own just fine, Lunchbox."

Trish nods, eyes serious, like maybe everything's starting to sink in. "Believe me, I'm not saying I want to do this forever. I just...needed time. I needed a break." The circles under her eyes aren't hidden by makeup anymore, and she does look tired. The end of tour's always rough.

"I know. Come on," Pete says. "Let's get you home." He orders a cupcake to go and settles the check. Trish has one bite and forces Pete to eat the rest, claiming she has to stick to her diet.

"Can I stay at yours?"

"You don't even need to ask. And the little dude will be thrilled to see Aunt Ish," Pete says.

Trish wrinkles her nose. "That nickname better not stick forever. Once his mouth grows to fit his tongue it's over."

"Whatever you say," Pete says. Bronx is going to come up with a million nicknames for her. He's Pete's kid, after all. Pete makes her take a picture with him outside the restaurant, his arm stuck way out so he can get as much of them into frame as possible.

Despite her voice, Trish sings along with the radio, belting out Adele and Rihanna, grinning when she hears Cobra. She's definitely subdued, though, barely making conversation between songs. Pete notices when her eyes start to slip shut, but he manages to keep her mostly awake long enough to make it home. He pays the sitter and half-carries her up the stairs, setting her down on the bed and helping her out of her clothes. She hates the weird lines she gets when she crashes without getting undressed.

"Here," he tells her, giving her an oversized tshirt. "I'll be back in a sec. I'm just gonna check on Bronx." Trish hums quietly in response, curling up into the pillow.

Bronx is out cold, still sucking his thumb. Pete decides to leave it for tonight. He pees and changes his clothes in the spare bedroom, tossing the Creed shirt in the trash. When he gets back, Trish is snoring a little, but Pete's not that tired yet. He opens his laptop and fucks around on the internet for a while, uploading the photos he took earlier. He ups the contrast on the one of him and Trish, and posts it to his Tumblr with the caption _Trix are for kidS and i never grew uP_. Trish will laugh and call him an idiot when, if, she sees it.

He powers down his computer, strips off his jeans, and curls up next to her, wrapping an arm around her waist. He's asleep within half an hour, like he usually is with Trish.

And when, a few days later, he sees a shot of them in the tabloids, he texts it to her. It must've been taken at somewhat of a long range, since he didn't see any paparazzi that night. The main spread is of him clutching Trish's hand, her face serious. The caption is anything but:

_Fall Out Girl Falls Back In! The band's singer and bassist were spotted canoodling at L.A. hotspot Paradox..._

He skips the rest of the "article," knowing it's just speculation about the band's status, with mentions of Pete's dick, failed marriage and new project, and Trish's weight. He doesn't have to wait long for a reply, though.

 _I blame you ;)_ Trish says.


End file.
